We got married nine years ago, on a hot August day in Moscow. I remember plenty of details, from the nutty drive to the ZAKS (wedding hall) with N at the wheel in her white dress, honking the horn and swearing like a sailor in traffic, the bouquet wet and cool in my hands in the passenger seat. The waves of relatives, the hectic waiting, the rush towards the room, me saying yes before I was supposed to, afterwards letting those white doves go, counting together and watching them fly away, ducking right.
A marriage is so many things.
Since we moved to Tbilisi I am reminded more often of her childhood, her youth spent on these crooked and magical streets when I watch her talking. There are home movies I have seen of N as a teenager, the skinny girl cracking her chewing gum, with fast eyes and a sharp tongue, in a t-shirt and blue jeans, long hair pulled tight into braids, the girl I would have pined for in high school, the girl I would have bothered and hounded trying to somehow impress her, desperate for her attention. On a good day, she might find me amusing, on another tedious. But would she go to the dance if I asked her? Maybe, just maybe. Why? Because she is kind. Because she could see right through me, even in this imagined youth, I have nothing to tell her but the naked truth and after the dust settles, she likes that.
On any given day, we pay bills, we make plans, talking about what is in front of us that needs to be solved, what to buy at the store, that the fridge needs cleaning, the rent is almost due again. And then here we are - exhausted, our bellies full, sipping another splash of wine after dinner, not sure who will volunteer to wash the dishes, just sitting at the table. This is also a marriage.
Daughter, sister, aunt, cousin. Now, a mother, and wife. Somehow she carries it all. Somehow she is still that girl with the wisecracks, sometimes tougher than she realizes, cutting the world in two, or a slicing a chain of dolls from that great piece of paper that was last week. And I am here, with my chin on my hands wondering what I can ask her on Valentine’s day, closing my eyes and drinking in her perfume, a scent I sampled somewhere and thought she would like.
A beautiful portrait. I often have felt the same thing when I see pictures of my wife as a child, or college student. A whole life she had that I wish I'd been there to see, to be part of. A part of her that I'll never truly understand or know.
Just, sigh!